


Masquerade

by Fweeble



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Canon Compliant, Day 3, Gen, Tokyo Ghoul Week, Unbeta'd, Uta introspection of sorts, spoilers up to Chapter 143
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fweeble/pseuds/Fweeble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People do not just wear masks --they become them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> Hierophant: knowledge, deception, duality
> 
> Enjoy the Uta. I love this magnificent bastard.

People do not just wear masks –they become them.  
  
Life is a masquerade; everyone plays their part, is primped and preened for the occasion. They wear their disguises in the sheer veneer of their smiles, their simpering laughs. Everyone is an actor on a stage, they pose their wooden appendages and paint their faces, deceive and mislead.   
  
And as they go through their motions, sow their lies and bury their truths, they forget their masks. Soon, they forget their true faces and when they see their reflections, they do not recognize themselves. All that is left is the mask, and then lies become the truth.  
  
Some may claim that they are their own agents, that they hold all the power, but Uta knows: It lies with the mask maker.  
  
For the players are but mortals on this stage and restricted by the lines they recite –the mask maker? The mask maker is god and has the world at his fingertips; he can create a devil from clay, an angel from gem, a monster from stone. He has the power to change the script, corrupt the actor; to destroy every sand castle and recreate the beach in his own image. He can watch as the masks they make become the actors, as they begin to lose sight of their purpose, as they dance to their demise.  
  
In this masquerade, Uta is the god who watches.  
  
He has a new toy and he asks himself how he would like to dress it up, what kind of face will he like to give it? What name, what role shall he bestow onto it? How will he make it dance, what form will he recreate it into?  
  
Such a meek child this piece is, with so many tears and torn parts so lovingly sewn together with tender care.  _Who is your owner?_  He wants to ask,  _Who has so carefully patched you back together with such affection?  
_  
_Is Touka your owner?  
_  
“You’re…that, then? You think girls younger than you are cuter than ones that are the same age.”  
  
  
_Who is your owner? Who is in my way?_  
  
Graphite glides over smooth paper, blood rushes in his ears, Uta can see it –he can see the crucified demon he will craft. He wants to see the eye the child always keeps hidden, wants it wide and open to witness the carnage he will create, to soak in the last moments before it realizes it is a toy, too broken to be recovered or remade.  
  
_What kind of face shall I paint for you, little one?_  
  
\--  
  
  
His newest toy wears its new face awkwardly, but Uta knows it’ll grow into its new features soon.   
  
“I daresay it suits you very well, Kaneki-kun.”   
  
He brushes cool leather with eager fingers, feels anticipation wash over him, goose pimples prickling.   
  
_How will you dance for me now that I have given you your role?_  
  
\--  
  
It breaks too early, too completely, and no amount of love or thread will sew that raggedy doll back together.  _To the scrap heap it goes_ , Uta sighs.  _To the scrap heap_.   
  
How disappointing.  
  
It had swept across the stage with such beauty, had so much potential for more. It could have reached heights further than it had, could have met an even more spectacular end. It could have struggled and fought until every last thread snapped, could have thrashed until its strings tightened around it, until its stuffing spilled and all remained was the face he painted for it.  
  
But tragedies are no fun, are they?  
  
They are so common, so cliché, and there’s no fun in that.  
  
So how should he end this masquerade? How will his other dolls with their painted faces and glass hearts dance for him?


End file.
